Stay in Line
by E-quaintance
Summary: America lost the Revolutionary War, but he couldn't stop the need to be free... even if that means dying. Oneshot. Warnings for mature themes (not sexual).


**Disclaimer** : I don't own these wonderful sweeties.

 **Author's Note** : This isn't going to be very historical – sorry – that feat is too advanced for me at the moment. I'm not going to get into politics or economics or any of that, since there is just _so much_ that has the potential to change, it's beyond my level.

I just got tired of seeing the comments that claimed life would be better without the current-personality of America. I beg to differ, purely for the fact that colony!America would not take the loss very well emotionally and therefore that is not "better" in my opinion. This is also inspired by the picture on DA called "A Very Good Question" by Arkham-Insanity.

 **Warnings** : death and serious injuries, mild language. There is a high possibility for triggering content, so please read at your own discretion. Your health is very important, especially to me! So please, if you have even the slightest concern for yourself, do NOT continue to read.

* * *

" _If you were dead or still alive, I don't care. Just go and leave this all behind, because I swear I don't care... I tried to make you see my side; I always tried to stay in line."_

* * *

In another universe, the weather was torrent of unending wind and rain as the rebel soldiers faced off against their Loyalist counterparts. In that world, America declared himself independent and with the help of foreign powers, managed to actually _win_. Centuries later, he would annoyingly throw open doors to conferences with an obnoxious laugh and too-wide grin. He would eat burgers and act as the fool of the world.

When the fourth of July would come around, England would hole himself away. America would celebrate his birthday with flamboyant, flashy, and patriotic games. Fireworks dazzled the sky in reds, whites, and blues. Though as happy as he was with his independence—at winning not only his freedom but also the respect that came along with finally being a nation equal to the others—the half-second thoughts about what-ifs would sometimes tingle along his spine when the early hours of the night and mental cobwebs worked together to cloud his eyes with self-doubt and darkness.

What if he lost the Revolutionary War?

Sometimes, America would overhear his allies (and enemies) pondering the abstract idea. He would also consider it, too, before brushing it aside with a dismissive hand wave for the happier thoughts. Nevertheless, the idea always came back up in one form or another.

"It should have happened," someone had said, "He would certainly be less arrogant and more humble."

"How could America do such a cruel thing to England, anyway?"

"Poor England, having to deal with such a brat."

"The world would be a better place today if America hadn't won the war."

But America didn't care because had won and the complex what-if was just a curious question to pass the time with no real heart in it. He was proud of himself, despite all his faults, and had no desire to put much effort into imagining how everything would be if had lost the revolutionary war.

And in that other universe, America grew to be a superpower who could even spread his wings to the moon and dream about what lay beyond. He meddled in other countries' businesses and many times made things worse; he was overly aggressive, and he had a multitude of backwards policies. Yet he was also free to be himself and work to be a better nation, only needing more time and experience. He was the United States of America, and he was proud of that fact ever since 1776 to the present day.

But sometimes, Fate could make an irreversible mistake. For better or worse.

In this world, America declared independence and met his ex-brother on a field of soft dirt, fresh from the recent rainfall. The sun was shining through the clouds as the self-proclaimed ex-colony and British Empire faced off with weary glares and stubborn determination. Muskets were raised and the silence before the fight was brittle and tense.

In this world, America lost the war.

And thus, the world changed.

…o0o…

"How dare you, boy," England hissed once they were in private. The anger on his face was like a thundercloud waiting for the first lightening strike.

America was still bleeding heavily but he ignored the pain. He had already died twice on the battlefields and the pain of losing the war—his _freedom_ —far outweighed the physical pangs from blood loss and dirt infecting the wound. "Let me _go_ , England!" he shouted instead, struggling against the iron grip around his wrists. "I'm not your brother! I want to be independent!"

The slap stung more than he would have thought, and America had to blink away the sudden tears from his eyes. He squinted at the angry red blob and curled his fingers into tight fists.

"What a spoiled child you are, Alfred," England sneered with as much condescension packed in as possible. "I raised you better than that."

With a roar of pent-up rage and self-directed disappointment, America tugged his hands free using all his strength. The momentum sent him backwards, ramming his back into the corner of the table. He slid down to the floor with a new injury as blood started to stain the back of his uniform. From his position on the ground, America put as much hate in his glare that he could.

England only looked amused, one eyebrow raised.

They stared at each other for a few minutes. With the adrenalin wearing off, America braced his hands on the floor, trying to stand, to finish it. His fingers were sticking together from the puddle on the floor. His knees buckled halfway and he fell down in a slump. He tried again—and then again, again, again, again, again—until his heartbeat was too fast and his breathing too shallow.

Watching this dispassionately, England finally leaned down when America was still and unmoving and said, "You have embarrassed me long enough."

America clenched his teeth around a snarl.

Smirking, England purposefully swept out of the room with as much coldness as possible. America breathed in one last time. This time he died alone, without his soldiers surrounding him in a sea of passionate blue. He couldn't help but wish he had permanently died on the battlefield with the rest of them.

…o0o…

The traitors had been given their send off publically. America was physically forced out of his house arrest to attend the spectacle; England made sure he stared unblinking as George then Thomas then John then William (his people—his _leaders_ ) and so many more were walked into the center of the field. Blood soaked the earth that day, poisoning the flowers, water, even the _air_ , and America knew he would never be able to wash himself clean.

When they arrived home, America blankly stared at the wall and refused to notice anything.

"I have been too lenient on you before, Alfred. I see my mistake now," England was saying. When he held his belt in his hands, America refused to make a sound at the lashings. He could only stare hollowly at the ground, longing to join his free compatriots.

...o0o…

After America's third failed attempt to indirectly reignite a rebellion, he resolved to fight for his freedom through any means.

The days turned into years with America no closer to his goal.

Sometimes Canada was allowed to visit his secluded twin. He always asked him how he was, actually meaning the question as more than perfunctory small-talk. America could only answer quietly with a truthful "alive." Each time he successfully managed to mask the disappointment at his own words. No one said anything about the unusual answer.

Canada was now England's favorite child. The soft-spoken twin was given doting attention, loved and pampered. The northern colony tried to share the treats with America when they huddled together on the bed after a long day, but he refused every time. The sweets would taste like copper, America knew, and they would burn like acid down his throat.

On a rainy day, when Canada was helping England in the kitchen as they tried a new recipe together, America detached a broken piece of glass from beneath the mattress he had one day been lucky enough to snag without England's attention. With numb but nimble fingers, he tore his pillowcase into one large, thick strip. He pushed one of the heavier chairs in front of the door in silence. The wood was barely scratched from the motions.

Beneath the place where the chair had been were Wiccan shapes etched carefully, lovingly, into the wood floorboards. America stared at his work for a moment and a sliver of anticipation shined through his eyes before the monotony returned.

Stuffing the fabric into his mouth and clenching his teeth together, America refused to make a single whimper and alert the others of his intentions. As he opened up the flesh on his wrists with a mantra of praying hope, the pain traveled over his body and he curled into himself. He closed his eyes and prayed, hoped, wished, _longed_ for the end.

He awoke with a stuttering breath and found himself in a large puddle of blood that soured his clothes and stained the cushions on the chair.

There wasn't enough time for him to hide himself or the blood when the doorknob shook as England tried to come in. It took only seconds after the initial confusion abated for the Empire to push the door along with the chair out of the way. As his wide green eyes took in the blood smudged across America's face, the red oozing through the cracks in the wood, he raised his hand high above his head in concerned outrage.

…o0o…

America's plans were forced into a dip of inactivity due to England monitoring every twitch he would make. He nibbled half-heartedly on a burnt scone as Canada waved his hands excitedly as he talked about the animals he had befriended recently. America was the only one who didn't have any silverware in front of him.

England's books on magic were now hidden and locked away. That was okay, because America already knew magic wasn't going set him free. He would have to do something else.

Acting on his best behavior, America forced himself to engage in the light conversations with his twin and England. The two were surprised, but mostly just relieved that America was adapting to the situation, that America was snapping out of whatever hold the traitorous rebels had on him. He was their brother again.

Not thinking America had the patience of three years, England finally allowed America the chance to go outside with his supervision.

As they walked through one of the towns near the bay, America stopped to watch his people. Soldiers were stationed at the corners and ugly splotches of red suits would slip in and out of homes. While his human family was not exactly happy, they were trying to adapt and remain living in the world that they now knew.

"Come along, child."

He let himself be led through the town. England's pace was disinterested but still slow enough for America to make eye-contact with as many of his brothers and sisters as he could. They would catch his eye and offer a tentative smile, some would frown curiously, and a few wounded soldiers sitting on the side of the dirt stared at him with tense jaws and glassy eyes, recognition twisting painfully under everyone's skin.

On their walk back, America caught a boy's eye and nodded, communicating in a way only a personification could with his or her citizens.

That night, America's human brother risked his life to unlock the doors and America's shackles. He collected the metal in his arms. They snuck out of the wooden cage together, hand in hand, and America affectionately kissed the dark-skinned boy's temple when they were far from England. No words were needed. America ruffled the child's hair and the boy giggled.

The human watched as America waded into the bay, his ankle rubbing raw against the chain. When he was deep enough, he released the fat rock and felt the water rush in around him as he sank and sank. The boy set a flower on the water and prayed to his God as the red petals calmly lapped at the small waves. He turned away and covered their tracks.

...o0o…

America awoke. He gasped awake and inhaled murky water instead of the oxygen his body desperately craved. A spasm ran through him and he instinctively panicked at the lack of breath. After long, painful minutes, his throat closed up. America fell into blissful unconsciousness.

His heart stopped for the 295th time.

…o0o…

On the way for his 435th death, strong hands circled around America's stomach. The chains around his feet were released through horrified, panicky force. America coughed up the water, chocking and spitting into the sand as he gripped the yellow grains in trembling fists.

" _Oh mon dieu_ ," someone was muttering, breath coming in short hiccupping gasps. "America, America, sweetie, look at me."

America glanced up through his eyelashes and stared at France without any emotion.

"How long?" the blond country whispered, still holding onto the young boy's shaking shoulders in a white-fisted grip that America didn't feel. "Please, _mon amie._ Please answer me. We've been looking for hours."

France meant well, and America was still grateful for his attempted help during the failed revolution even if it was only an attempt to hurt England. "A day," he croaked because it seemed like the correct answer. France didn't appear happy by that news, his bright blue eyes shining as he pulled the young colony into a tight hug.

"I'm sorry," France sobbed, clutching his boney frame almost desperately. America suspected he was imagining what his twin would be like in his situation-if Matthew was the one who was drowning.

America pet France's head instead of returning the embrace.

…o0o…

He let the tea cool on the table without taking a single taste as France, England, and Canada shared a look. The intervention already wasn't proving too helpful.

"Alfred," Canada tried, at his wits end and exhausted just by looking at his younger twin. "You need to adapt to your situation. Your people are surviving… why aren't you trying like they are?" Upset, Canada raised his voice and cried out, "Why are you being so selfish?!"

America snapped up with a glare so intense and burning his older brother slunk back reflexively. The snarl was on the tip of his tongue, but instead America fisted the tabletop in his course palms and showed them his natural, jagged smile that was as smooth as broken glass.

"You know _nothing_. My people are breathing but they aren't happy. They are struggling to feed their families – I can feel every hunger pain, every depressed smile, every single one of their hurts because they're being repressed by _you_ ," America panted, out of breath, pointing a thin finger at the short Empire.

England pursed his lips, his body half-way raised in preparation to punish America's juvenile tantrum.

"I can't live like this! I _can't_!" he wailed, and the three stared at the emotions America hadn't directly expressed in decades. "I _have_ tried, you pieces of shit, but every breath I take is wrong."

America ground his teeth and then stumbled out of the room. He collapsed onto his bed and gasped in his bloody, poisoned air, his eyes forever dry.

…o0o…

That night, America bundled his pillow around his fists as second-thought protection and put his entire body into breaking the window. Glass exploded and shards cut pretty lines over his skin. He pulled the outer bars apart enough so that he could slip his wiry limbs through, his ankle already bleeding heavily from the manner in which America removed his chains. The sound of the window breaking surely would have awoken the others, but America didn't care anymore.

"You were right," America admitted, staring mesmerized at the stars as he dangled precariously on the edge. England stopped his rush to the roof and Canada and France caught up with him. "I was being selfish, trying stupidly to die when I know I can't unless my lands and people are destroyed."

His sentence only seemed to make Canada more nervous, and he shot a petrified glance at the colony when he suspected what the teen was thinking.

America smiled gently at the stars. "I'll stop being an idiot now."

England found his voice, taking a step forward and muttering, "Well that's good, Alfred. Now come down from—"

America turned. His blue eyes glittered. "Dying got less scary after a while," he mused thoughtfully. Then he smiled at them. "I'm never going to stop trying to be free. But this time, I'll work with my people. We'll fight over and over and over again until we're no longer tools in someone else's game."

The wind picked up and America said, "And then _we'll_ be free."

And he stepped forward and fell.

.

 _fin_

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 **Author's Note** : I don't even know why I did this, it made me frown for the entire day and it's not even that original. Oh well.

I shall also do some explaining about the very end since it was subtle and I want ya'll to know my thoughts for that part. America needs strong allies to win another war, especially with England more aware of what's happening on the North American continent. It going to be _insanely_ hard for him to try for independence again and actually be able to succeed.

That is why, to make myself feel better, I hinted at other worldly help, aka _Tony_. The stars and beyond. America still has a great scientific mind and he'll no doubt hone that over the years no matter his colonial status. I don't think anything about meeting Tony will change, and thus once they do meet he shall gain a powerful friend—one who doesn't even need to participate in anything directly to assist. He can just help America get his wits together and gather back his fighting spirit since the alien can look at things as objectively as possible. He'll be the friend that America sorely needs after living in such a tight, dysfunctional family.

And that is where I wanted to end it! Sorry for what ever this depressing thing is. I don't even know. Please review and tell me what you think? Please?

Could you also lemme know if I should change the rating to M? There is a lot of injury and death in this (putting it lightly, haha) so that could warrant a more mature status.


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